


The End Times: A Love Story

by Mizmak



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Declarations Of Love, First Kiss, Happy Ending, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:42:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24235972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mizmak/pseuds/Mizmak
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley are surprised to see a new bestselling novel about Armageddon--especially since it features an angel and a demon in love--and Crowley wonders how the author got *that* idea....
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 75





	The End Times: A Love Story

Aziraphale stared at the Waterstones bookshop display window, which was filled with copies of a new bestseller, its cover ablaze in black, white, and red.

_The End Times: A Love Story_ by M. Tracy.

A poster next to the pile of books displayed a stylized demon and angel holding hands, facing each other, with a lightning bolt crashing down between them. The poster was emblazoned with quotes.

_The Apocalypse comes to England – are a demon and an angel the world’s only hope? Can their forbidden love for each other triumph over Heaven and Hell?_

_A thrilling mix of high-stakes adventure and romance – you’ve never seen a more unique doomsday. M. Tracy delivers the goods (and the evils, too!)_

M. Tracy. Madame Tracy. Oh, dear. What had that dear woman been _thinking?_

Aziraphale rushed inside to buy a copy.

He sat in his favorite armchair at his own bookshop, so deeply engrossed in the story that his cocoa had gone cold.

When the locked door tinkled open and Crowley sauntered in, Aziraphale slammed the book shut, and stuffed it under the chair cushion. He looked up as Crowley strolled over to the sofa and flounced onto it.

Crowley was holding a book.

It had a striking black, white, and red cover.

_Oh, dear._

“Good morning, Angel.”

“It’s nearly noon, my dear.”

“Whatever.” Crowley held the book up. “Look what I spotted this morning in a bookstore, on my way to get coffee.”

“Rather garish, isn’t it?” Aziraphale sighed as he tugged his copy from beneath the cushion. Not much point in hiding it now. He cleared his throat. “Have you read much of it yet?”

“Hoping I wouldn’t see it, were you? Hm—why is that, I wonder?”

“Please don’t start.”

Crowley grinned. “Start what? Seems to me that _you_ started something when you shared Madame Tracy’s body. Maybe a little too much sharing, if you ask me.”

Aziraphale could feel the flush creeping up his face. 

The nerve of the woman—how dare she pen this absurd novel at all, with its thinly disguised account of the Armageddon they had worked to stop, with its even more thinly disguised characters ( _Azra Fall? Anthony Raven?)_ , and how dare she pen those ridiculously romantic scenes between the two….

Just how much of his mental landscape had seeped into her mind during their time together?

He tapped his fingers on his copy of the book. “I don’t know what you think you are implying, but I am _quite_ certain she made up a great deal of this—this _twaddle_ —out of whole cloth. For one thing, she made the angel character far too _fussy_.”

“Oh?” Crowley smiled. “Yeah, the way he acts so prim and proper all the time, that’s highly annoying.”

Aziraphale frowned. He couldn’t always tell all of the times when Crowley was teasing him, but he had the distinct feeling this was one of them. “She called me _old-fashioned.”_

“Angel, you _are_ old-fashioned.”

“She wrote that tartan was hopelessly passé.”

“It _is_.”

Well, two could play at this. “On the other hand, _your_ character is perfectly written, don’t you think?” 

_“What?”_ Crowley sat forward and waved the book about. “He’s completely over the top! Way too much drama—always flailing about with exaggerated gestures and yelling—he’s not accurate _at all_.”

“Hm.” Aziraphale pursed his lips. “I rather thought she drew his character quite well.”

“You did?” Crowley started flipping through the pages.

“Yes. For one thing, you can tell, even early on, that he has a soft spot for humanity. He’s trying so hard to be demonic, but that’s only on the outside. On the inside, he’s actually quite _nice_.”

“Right. A warm and cuddly demon. Are you _serious?”_

“I didn’t say he was warm and cuddly. I said he was nice.” Aziraphale smiled. “I’ve always said that.” 

Crowley tossed the book aside and rose in one fluid motion to stride over to the wine cabinet. “I need a drink.”

The cocoa on Aziraphale’s end table had congealed. “Pour one for me, too, will you, my dear?”

“Right.” He did so, and brought the glass over. “Here you go. Shall I leave a bottle for you?”

“No, I’d rather not.”

“Whatever.”

“Fine.”

When Crowley had resettled onto the sofa, he drank nearly half the wine in his glass in one go, and set it down before picking up _The End Times: A Love Story_. “So. This thing.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale picked up his own copy. “I’m a bit displeased that she didn’t have the courtesy to ask our permission first before publication. Though I suppose if we _had_ , that might imply that this embellished tale was _accurate_.”

“ _Nice_ and accurate?”

“Don’t be annoying.” Aziraphale sipped his wine. “Listen, how much of it have you actually read?”

“The whole blasted thing.”

“Ah. Well, I haven’t got to the end yet. Would you be able to sit there and be quiet and not make any rude or sarcastic or humorous remarks until I’m done, please?”

Crowley finished off his wine and promptly refilled his glass. “I’ll just get drunk, then, shall I?”

“Any particular reason?”

Was that a _flush_ on his friend’s cheeks? Crowley squirmed a bit on the sofa before replying, “Let’s just say Madame Tracy has a vivid imagination. You might want fortification, too.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. What he had read so far, which was three-quarters of the novel, was imaginative indeed. She had spiced up her tale with several romantic storylines—between Newt and Anathema, which seemed appropriate, and between her character and Sergeant Shadwell’s, which was rather sweet.

And then there was the romance between the angel and the demon.

The truth was, that _if_ she had picked up on his thoughts while he’d been inhabiting her body, then at least part of that romantic notion was, indeed, perfectly nice and accurate.

The part where “Azra Fall” the angel thought about how much he loved “Anthony Raven” the demon, for instance. 

And the part where the angel bemoaned his duty to Heaven, and how he yearned to break free of it instead of clinging on tightly to a forlorn hope for peace, and how much he regretted hurting his friend by his stubborn obedience.

_That_ had not been invented out of whole cloth.

He took another few sips of the wine, and then set to finishing the novel.

An hour later, Aziraphale closed the book. Partway through the ordeal he had, indeed, decided on a bit more ‘fortification’, as his friend called it, and was on his third glass of wine. He felt mildly tipsy, though far from drunk.

Crowley, though, was thoroughly inebriated, lolling full-length on the sofa while muttering to himself and waving his hands about as if conducting a silent symphony. His sunglasses had fallen onto the floor.

Aziraphale sighed. This was not going to be an easy conversation, and he knew it would be better were they both in the same state of mind—either both drunk or both sober but not one and the other.

He set the book aside and rose to walk over to the sofa. After shoving Crowley’s legs out of the way, he sat down in his prim and proper fashion. _Fussily_ , he supposed. 

“Crowley.” 

“Yup. Still here. Whassup?”

“I finished the novel. And you need to sober up.”

“Nope. Don’t wanna. Happy now. Silly book. Doessssn’t matter _one_ teensy bit. _Not_ talking about it.”

Obviously, they were going to talk about it. Just not this way. “Crowley, if you don’t sober up this instant, I shall sit here and read the romantic passages out loud until you do.”

“Not fair.” Crowley shook his head vigorously. “Go away. No, _I’ll_ go away.” He tried to get off the sofa, staggered, swayed, and collapsed back down. “ _Shit_. _Bollocks_.”

Aziraphale fondly patted his shoulder. “There’s a good fellow. No running away, now, all right? We’re going to have a _talk_.”

“Nope, no, not happening, jussssst not not _not_ talking. Don’t talk. Rubbish book.”

“Is it?”

“Yup. Nothing but a great big load of tripe.”

Aziraphale felt a twinge of sadness then. Yes, this whole romance story had made him awfully anxious—because his feelings had been put on display for the world to see—well, for Crowley to see, and he was the only reader who mattered. He’d realized that his friend would wonder why the characters had been written that way. He was anxious because he worried how Crowley would react, but underlying that stress was a deep-seated hope that it wouldn’t be the typical, flippant, dismissive reaction that his friend relied on to stave off the truth.

“Do you _want_ it all to be rubbish, my dear?” 

“Isssn’t even _half_ good, this.” Crowley held up the offending novel. 

But it was at least _true_ —or was it only partly true—the part about the angel’s feelings for the demon, but not the other way round? Surely not. Aziraphale had not spent six thousand years in Crowley’s company without picking up on very clear signs of affection. Perhaps he wanted to deny the romantic element, but he couldn’t go on denying the _love_. Not anymore.

Aziraphale looked into Crowley’s wide, golden eyes. “It isn’t _all_ rubbish. Do please sober up.”

Crowley went quite silent then. Aziraphale held his gaze, unwilling to let this slide one more day. Perhaps he ought to stop mentally castigating Madame Tracy, and should send her a note of gratitude for bringing to light what he had kept hidden for far too long.

“Not going to,” Crowley said. “It’s _rubbish_.”

“Fine.” Then damn it all to Hell, he was going to follow through on his threat. Aziraphale took a steadying breath as he picked up Crowley’s copy of the novel. 

No more embarrassment. No more anxiety. None of those persistent, unwelcome feelings he’d held in check for millennia—the ones that told him not to give in to love. He _had_ given in, ages ago, and if Crowley thought it was rubbish, then that was _his_ problem. 

Aziraphale was done worrying about how his friend would react to romance. Let him flail about in his overdramatic, exaggerated manner. Wouldn’t alter the truth one whit.

He found the passage he wanted near the end of the book, cleared his throat, and read it out loud.

“The angel dared at last to clasp his demon friend to his breast, to pour out his true feelings. ‘I have waited an eternity to hold you as my own,’ Azra whispered in breathy gasps as his ethereal heart beat faster. ‘I care for you more deeply than Heaven. Tell me I am not a fool to love you!’

“The demon’s gaze held true as he spoke the words which Azra longed to hear. ‘You dear, silly angel—you have always been my one and only love.’ Then he proved his words by a kiss—“

“ _Stop!”_ Crowley tore the book from his hands, and threw it across the room. 

“Really, my dear.” Aziraphale sank back against the sofa, downcast and defeated. He had gone a step too far, and this was to be the end of it, after all. What had he done? How could he have been mistaken—he shouldn’t have chosen that scene. Too romantic. Too close to what he truly wanted—and what Crowley obviously didn’t want to see.

He rubbed his hands over his face, feeling stupid and useless and heartbroken. _Rubbish_ indeed. What was left now for them—just an awkward friendship, if even that?

Then he dropped his hands as he heard Crowley making grunting sounds. The wine bottles on the table slowly refilled. He was sobering up.

_Oh Hell_.

Tremors of anxiety returned full force, and Aziraphale started to push himself off the sofa, away—he needed to get away, back to a safe distance—

Crowley grabbed his arm to pull him down. “That’s not what I meant, Angel.”

Aziraphale stayed gingerly on the edge of the sofa. “What?”

“I didn’t mean what happened _in it_ was rubbish.” Crowley shifted over a little closer. “I meant the _writing_ was rubbish. Nobody says stuff that soppy in real life.”

_Oh_. The shivering nervousness was abruptly replaced by a tingling of hope. Only the _writing_ was tripe—not the meaning behind the words?

Well, truth to tell, having read a great deal of the finest literature, Aziraphale had to agree that Madame Tracy’s skill as an author lacked a certain finesse, although he had rather enjoyed the sentimentality of that particular moment. “They don’t?”

“Well, _I_ don’t say things like that.”

Did that mean Crowley identified with the demon in the book after all? “Antony Raven is a fictional character,” Aziraphale reminded him. “And you said he wasn’t believable, as I recall. ‘Over the top’ and ‘exaggerated’.”

“ _You_ said he was _nice_.” Crowley sighed. “He might be a very complicated character.” He waved his hand. “You know, hidden depths, that sort of thing.”

“Could be.” Aziraphale began to sense that things between them might not be as strained as he imagined. “And there may have been a great many complicated thoughts in my head while I was sharing Madame Tracy’s body. Must have been rather confusing for her.”

“Yeah. That must be it.” Crowley turned sideways on the sofa to face him. “You know, I think that scene would have been written differently if she’d bothered to ask for help from the angel and demon involved.”

There was softness in Crowley’s eyes. He could _see_ the love there. Aziraphale smiled, and said, “ _If_ I was Azra, and if you were Anthony, I certainly would have had other words to say.”

“Such as?”

He wasn’t going to run away. Neither of them were. _Now or never_. “Well, first, I would have taken your hand in mine, like this.” Aziraphale reached for Crowley’s right hand, and took it in both of his, clasping them tightly. 

No resistance, no pulling back— _try to get it right this time_. No using another person’s rubbishy words. This time, he would not only speak the truth, but he would let his friend know it was all right to hold on to as much or as little of it as he wished to. 

Even if that meant none at all.

“And after taking your hand,” Aziraphale said, “I would have told you this: ‘Anthony, my dear, I love you more than you know, and possibly more than you wish to know. You are my world, but if you want to leave, I will love you enough to let you go. Though I hope you wish to stay, and let love in. If you do, then tell me now, for there is nothing more that I shall ever ask of you.’”

He waited, and unlike the character in the book, his heart did not beat too fast. He waited, while his heart beat in a calm, steady rhythm.

“ _If_ I were Anthony,” Crowley replied, “I would have done this.” He brought their joined hands to his lips, and he kissed them. “And then I would have collapsed into an over-the-top puddle of goo for a week because that was insanely beautiful.”

“Was it?” Aziraphale beamed with pleasure. “Oh, _thank_ you.”

Crowley pulled him into a tight embrace. “Damn, Aziraphale. You need to take up writing novels.”

Aziraphale clutched at him as if he were drowning, and Crowley was his lifeline. They were _fine_ —the relief washed through him, and he clung harder, crushing his body so hard against Crowley’s that he heard a whimper and had to let up. “Sorry.”

“Let me breathe—“

“You don’t need to breathe.”

“Shut up.” Crowley put his hands on either side of Aziraphale’s face and pulled him in for a kiss, and then a few dozen more, and Aziraphale found himself stopping to breathe in between them, for he was feeling awfully lightheaded.

“So you do love me, then, I take it?” he asked when the kisses trailed off. 

“I’m staying put, aren’t it?” Crowley placed a hand on Aziraphale’s chest. “As if I would take off and leave, just because you said soppy romantic things.”

“Well, one never knows, when it comes to dealing with demons. They can be rather touchy at times.”

Crowley pushed out his lower lip. “Yeah…point taken.”

Aziraphale placed a hand in turn on Crowley’s chest. “Best friends can handle anything together, though, I’m quite certain. Even something as complicated as love. Yes?”

“Not that complicated,” Crowley replied. “I first loved you a long, _long_ time ago, Aziraphale. I still do. Pretty simple, if you ask me.”

_Why had the bookshop suddenly gotten so warm?_

“You all right, Angel?”

Crowley loved him. Of course he was all right. Just rather warm and still a little lightheaded. “I think I might need a bit of fresh air, and perhaps some lunch.”

“Yeah, me too.” Crowley rose, and pulled him up as well. “Where do you want to go? My treat.”

“The Ritz, in that case.”

“Naturally.”

Aziraphale stopped to pick up the discarded copy of _The End Times: A Love Story_. “Do you think I should invite Madame Tracy to the bookshop for a reading and book signing? We could get our copies personally inscribed.”

“Nah.” Crowley shook his head. “Dreadful writing. Your bookshop has _standards_.”

“Ah, you may be right.” He set the novel on his desk. “Still, it was a quite interesting reading experience. Curious, to see oneself as others see one.” 

As they headed for the shop entrance, Crowley said, “There’s a scene where she describes me as ‘someone striving to look darkly cool, demonic, and dangerous, while secretly longing for a good hug.’ Did she get that notion from you, by any chance?”

Aziraphale stopped at the front door. “Possibly.”

“Right.” Crowley pulled him into an embrace. “Thanks for passing it along.”

“You’re welcome, my dear.”

They hugged a few moments longer, and then headed off for what turned out to be a perfect lunch, and a perfect stroll through St. James’s Park afterwards, just as they had done many times before. 

And when they returned to the bookshop, they spent a perfect evening reading certain passages from a certain bestselling novel—which they then re-enacted, and improved upon, in their own particular ways.


End file.
